Andorhal and the New Scourge
by Raidne Fern
Summary: Multi-chapter story chronicling the events surrounding Koltira's imprisonment in the Undercity. What are Sylvanas's true motivations? Will Thassarian be able to withstand the potency of this new Scourge? Contains slash, graphic violence/gore.
1. Capriciousness

Hello there! This is my first fanfic. It features my favorite lore characters in World of Warcraft, the bromantic Koltira and Thassarian. It will include my version of how I feel the Sylvanas's-captive-Koltira cliffhanger should end, since Blizzard will never in a thousand years make it happen XD

Please read/review/enjoy!

CHAPTER 1: Capriciousness

The wood between Mender's Stead and Hearthglen in the Western Plaguelands had not fully recovered from its time in the grip of the Scourge. It was silent and eerie; very few birds and animals had yet recolonized the region. Ruined houses, some mere shells with only foundations and chimneys left standing, dotted the forest. A persistent mist clung to the sparse shrubs and vegetation in the once-fertile shallow valley.

He waited for the other, dismounting and hobbling his charger, Bloodmist, near one of the crumbled cottages. The early morning was bitingly cold; though he couldn't feel it himself, he could tell by the way his cool breath misted in the air. He had sent a bird to Hearthglen, fervently hoping that the encoded message would reach whom he had intended.

He did not need to wait long to find out. Bloodmist's ears pricked up, and he knew the other was approaching. The huge, deathly warhorse appeared through the mist, the soft clop of his hooves on the loam seeming to ring and die suddenly in the muffled silence of the wood. He could see the dim blue glow of their eyes before he could see their shapes clearly.

The hulking, heavily armored man dismounted and hobbled Dusk alongside Bloodmist. The man did not meet his eyes, instead focusing on his horse, checking the reins and saddle unnecessarily.

"That was quite a show you put on back there, Thassarian."

"I had to. You know that," Thassarian replied gruffly.

"Ah. Yes. Your Alliance ward. Wouldn't want her tattling to Tirion Fordring about how the high-appointed General of Alliance forces in Andorhal is secretly fucking Sylvanas's commander."

Thassarian remained silent, staring at the ground; he seemed uncharacteristically melancholy.

Koltira felt a flash of annoyance, and pressed on heedlessly. "You sent her to kill my War-Captains. What, the great Thassarian has grown too cowardly to slay those he condemns himself? Has joining the Alliance stripped you of the Blade's death-bought valor?" His own gall and the words he spat had made him more than irritated; he was angry now. "I didn't think I'd ever see Thassarian become the lapdog of some coward-king, a little talking bird following orders and issuing cowardly commands."

"Watch yourself, Deathweaver!" Thassarian shouted with sudden anger. He had closed his hands around his sheathed swords and taken a step toward Koltira. "I'm sure your Captains suffered well, _brother._ And how is the _Lady_ Sylvanas?" he sneered, "hiding behind her scourge machines, her plague-bearers, sending those _monsters_, those whores of Northrend, the Val'kyr, to slay peasants and turn them to her will?"

"Your rabble of _peasants_ attacked my men first!"

Thassarian dismissed the accusation with a sharp shake of his head. "She has become what we were fighting, Koltira! If I had known what she was planning, I would have _led_ the attack!"

Koltira ignored that statement as well, staring at him with his jaw clenched stubbornly.

Straightening, Thassarian regarded him with cold disdain. "She has become a lovely Lich-Queen, and you her slavering Lich-Dog, to share her unearned victories and-who knows?-maybe even her bed."

_Too far._ Koltira snarled in fury and drew Byfrost from its sheath on his back. Thassarian simultaneously drew his dual blades, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Their blades clashed together with a grinding shriek, and Koltira barely leapt aside in time as Thassarian untangled his left-hand sword and swept it in a horizontal slice that would have disemboweled the blood elf. Koltira countered with a mighty two-handed overhead blow that Thassarian barely managed to catch and block with his blades crossed over his head. The elf's inertia from the force of the blow was too much for Thassarian to fully halt, and one of the curved edges of Byfrost's point nicked him on the brow, drawing a sudden gush of deep blue, faintly glowing blood. Thassarian disengaged, deftly parrying the larger sword with his dual blades and skipping back several steps to begin another assault.

Both combatants' blows were clumsy and easily anticipated, and Koltira knew that Thassarian was holding back on purpose, as was he. They had seen each other fight. They would both be grievously wounded or worse if they were to fight in earnest. Even through the cloud of his anger, Koltira saw Thassarian: his comrade, his brother, his lover. Panting, his cold breath steaming in the colder air, he stopped suddenly after another engagement, letting Byfrost slip from his fingers, doubling over from exertion and holding up a hand in surrender. "Please, Thass. I refuse to continue this pointless fighting."

"And you call _me _coward." Thassarian wasn't so easily calmed, but he ceased his assault and glowered at Koltira. He gestured with his swords angrily as he spoke. "We _should _refuse to continue this pointless fighting. All of it. How long can it keep going? I nearly long for the unending cold of Northrend, the long lines of Scourge, mindless and fearless, so much wheat for the reaving, to this…this turning of brother against brother, this senseless slaughter, while the Destroyer breathes his fire down our soon-to-be headless necks. Do you not realize the extent of this futility? And _she's_ behind it, that Banshee bitch. She musters her undead forces to march on the South, spreading her plague as she goes, and I've a feeling this is merely the least of what we've seen of her plans, of her plans for _you_, in particular. Sylvanas is up to something, Tira. You'd have to be a fool not to see it."

Koltira looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since they had begun fighting. He saw that Thassarian's brow, cut and flowing with pulses of blue-black blood, had furrowed in concern; for _him_, no more or less: not for the Alliance, not for Andorhal, not for war. He instantly felt ashamed for goading him.

_He may be rash, but he is as intuitively observant as ever. _He sighed. "I _am_ growing…uneasy…about her intentions with me. I'm not so blind as to believe that she actually trusts me as her commander here, nor do I think her naïve enough to believe that you and I have become fast enemies after serving as brothers for these long years. The truth is that I'm not sure what she wants with me. To make me her slave, her groveling emissary for access to the Ebon Blade, or something more…she is unreadable and untrusting." He paused, unsure if he should continue. _It's Thass. Back then…in Northrend, I could tell him anything. But times have changed._

Thassarian had been listening raptly, waiting, his expectant expression revealing his suspicion that Koltira had not told him everything.

Koltira measured his words carefully. "I'm afraid…that is, I suspect, but am not yet certain…that she means to use necromancy on me, to test whether she can enslave her Forsaken as the Lich King enslaves the Scourge. If she proved capable of that, then your slight about the 'Lich-Queen' would not have been at all far from the mark."

As Koltira spoke, Thassarian's face went slack, his eyes widening with shock. _Dammit, what have I done? I couldn't just hold my tongue, could I? _"This…y-you must tell someone!" Thassarian spluttered. "We must warn King Wrynn at once, if this is true-"

"It would mean open and widespread war." Koltira spoke with careful earnesty. He wiped Byfrost on a patch of cracked, frozen grass before sheathing it, pointedly avoiding Thassarian's gaze. _I know him. I must be cautious; once he is riled, he will rarely be dissuaded._

"_Obviously_! If she means to use our men as her _enslaved _minions_…_God, it would be like Northrend again…I must leave now, this moment, warn them…" Thassarian strode over to where he had hobbled his warhorse, Dusk; untied him; swung up into the saddle. He brought the horse about to face Koltira. "And you, Tira. You must leave this place. Get as far from that undead wench as you can. Now that I've heard you say it, I'm certain you're right. _Don't let her have you._"

As he spoke those words, Koltira detected something in his voice and looked up at him sharply. Thassarian was giving him a curious but somehow familiar look.

"Come with me," Thassarian blurted, the words spilling out of him so abruptly that Koltira was certain he had been close to not saying them at all.

_No…Belore, no, why did you have to ask me? You know I can never refuse you. _Koltira sat down on the ground as weariness suddenly washed over him. _Maybe I can still stop you. I never could before, though. _"Well, you did say that you longed for Northrend." He gave Thassarian a sad smile. "And the resulting war…that would certainly remind us of it."

"Hell yes. In more ways than one." Thassarian's face had lit up as he felt his battle hunger stir. His eyes met Koltira's with a burning, intense look that he knew all too well. _Don't look at me like that, like you did then. Northrend is far behind us._ He was sure that, if he asked, Thassarian would gather the tattered remains of his forces this moment and march on the Undercity itself. Koltira couldn't think of a single person more capricious than his brother-in-death. _Belore-talah! _Koltira cursed himself inwardly. _He's set now, and I'm just making it worse. _Determination swelled in him and he soldiered on.

"No. Thass, this is folly. We mustn't spark a war while Deathwing threatens the entirety of two continents; you said as much yourself. We _must_ tread carefully here." Koltira rose suddenly and seized Dusk's bridle, holding him firmly in place.

"That was before I realized that Banshee-bitch truly is styling herself the next Lich King. We can't let this spread like it did before, in Northrend _and _here—here, Tira! In this very place! I won't let it." Thassarian spoke the last few words with fierce conviction. "Get out of my way," he snarled.

_And here I nearly thought__ he missed my refusing him.__ Now I find out if everything has changed. _If his heart had still held a strong enough beat, it would have been pounding in his ears. "I won't. At least let me dress your wound." He reached up to where the blood was still oozing sluggishly from the partly-clotted gash on Thassarian's brow and gently wiped some from above his eye.

Thassarian froze when Koltira's hand touched his face. He gazed uncomprehendingly at the blood that had dripped unnoticed onto his arm and hand. _He didn't even realize I cut him._ "I _am_ sorry for that," Koltira said, abashed. "My wrath made me stronger than I realized."

Abruptly, Thassarian grabbed his hand, and dismounted smoothly from Dusk. For a moment, Koltira couldn't tell whether he was furious or impassioned. Then he took Koltira's face in both his hands and kissed him so fiercely that a rivulet of blood was forced from his wound and down onto their lips. Koltira slid his hands up into Thassarian's hair and gasped with passion as his lips parted. They clung to each other, Koltira pressing himself against Thassarian as tightly as their armor would allow.

Too soon, they parted. Thassarian looked at Koltira, whose arms were still tangled up around him. Thassarian grinned at him lustily, and there, suddenly, was Koltira's old brother-in-death, his lover, the man for whom his frozen heart ached. He felt the long-forgotten glowing blue blush filling his cheeks, as it had those years ago in Northrend; lifetimes, millennia, eons.

"Now _that_ I longed for," Thassarian said softly.

END CHAPTER 1

Author's note: I use _Belore_ (pronounced bell-or-ay) as a Thalassian (blood elf language) curse here, because there isn't really a "curse" that is equivalent to, say, the Night Elf Darnassian _Elune! _that I imagine they would use as a curse/oath. _Belore_ means "sun" in Thalassian, and I always imagine that the sun is to Blood Elves what the moon is to Night Elves. Maybe a little bit of a stretch, but I didn't imagine that Thalassian-speaking Koltira would say "God!" like a human would!

Note Edit: Thank you, Ceasefire, for letting me know that Koltira's horse's name is "Bloodmist" in canon!


	2. Refusal

_Several months later, and the news of Koltira's disappearance has reached Thassarian. Author's Notes: For the purposes of this story, this is actually **after** the Alliance officially lost Andorhal. Sorry about the shortness of this slow-to-come chapter! I've been furiously writing the story, rest assured, but it's been a very piecemeal process. Chapters will likely be short like this from now on but will come out faster :) Thanks for reading and please R/R! Oh and also, if you would be so kind, please let me know if I have/haven't gotten all of their military ranks right! It's been driving me crazy!  
><em>

CHAPTER 2: Refusal

Thassarian strode purposefully across the practice yard, forcing himself not to break into a flat sprint and draw attention. Alliance soldiers sparred haphazardly in the warm light of midmorning, and one pair of young recruits in particular was becoming wildly overzealous, shouting and laughing as they drove one another across wide swaths of the field with slow, clumsy overhand blows. One of the two, a sandy-haired, blue-eyed scrawny fellow, lost his footing in a dip in the ground and fell sprawling across Thassarian's path, laughing as he went. One glance at the look in Thassarian's burning eyes brought the boy scrambling to his feet, terrified, and both recruits sprang to attention, saluting and apologizing profusely. Scowling, Thassarian swept past them into the Hearthglen keep.

Tirion Fordring was holed up alone in the upstairs war room, poring over a map of the Plaguelands. His appearance suggested sleepless nights: his eyes were ringed with dark circles, and his normally smooth silver hair was tangled and greasy. He scribbled notes with a quill in a ledger as his fingers traced the map, muttering to himself as he wrote. Thassarian, though impatient, stood with respectful silence in the doorway until the Highlord looked up, perhaps having sensed the death knight's unholy presence through an attunement born of long years fighting Scourge.

"General Thassarian." He acknowledged him with a curt nod, and bent his head back over the map.

Taking it as permission to speak, Thassarian hurriedly stepped inside, standing at attention. "Highlord, sir, I've just received word that Sylvanas has—"

"I know," Tirion cut him off. "And I know why you're here."

Thassarian opened his mouth without speaking, taken aback.

"Drink?" Tirion asked, tossing the quill aside. Settling himself in one of the rough wooden chairs behind the huge table, he reached for a decanter of rich amber liqueur. He poured two generous portions into tarnished brass goblets, took his up, and drank deeply, gesturing at an empty chair across from him. Thassarian ignored the offers and started again.

"Then will you, sir? Allow me to lead an attack—"

"No, General. I'm sorry," Tirion looked up at him, and his look was sympathetic-knowing, somehow. "You know I can't spare anywhere near enough troops right now for a venture, nor would I allow our tenuous peace-" he paused and corrected himself, "_tolerance_ to be turned to war, even for such a valuable, proven soldier as Commander Deathweaver."

Thassarian felt what little hope he had had crush itself into ash; dust of bone. Anger at this easy dismissal rose in him like bile, and he struggled to maintain an even, respectful tone, even as his voice shook.

"Sir…I'm not sure you understand what's happening here. Now that we've lost Andorhal, the Banshee stands to capture all of the Plaguelands. And now…now she's using Val'kyr, whom Koltira was sure, before he was…" Thassarian's words caught in his throat, "…taken, she was using as the Lich King once did. Highlord, if we don't stop her…I have no doubt that we'll see a second spread of the Scourge."

As he finished, he felt suddenly breathless and panicky upon noting that Tirion did not look as panicked, nor, indeed, concerned at all.

Tirion sighed and drummed his fingers on the map. "I know all this, General." The look of pity in his eyes was infuriating to Thassarian now.

"Then why do you do _nothing_?" Thassarian snarled, furious at Tirion's calm demeanor while he felt ready to storm to the Undercity himself, alone, ready to die with the bodies of his enemies piled at his feet. Any semblance of restraint and deference were gone with his hope.

Tirion's eyes narrowed, and he set down his goblet sharply. "I do not _nothing_," he said, and there was a dangerous, warning edge to his voice. "Our forces are already few, thanks to King Wrynn's myriad other campaigns, and we are all but actively losing our foothold here, as you well know. The loss of Andorhal was devastating." The reminder of Thassarian's crushing defeat stung like a whip-weal. "It would sound a death-knell for the Alliance in the Western Plagues if we rashly marched to the Undercity, and we _would _die, all for a single blood elf."

"Not only for him!" Thassarian insisted, but Tirion silenced him again with a raised hand.

"_Believe me_, General Thassarian, I know how you feel," Tirion said earnestly, and then his voice was businesslike and calm again. He took up his quill, turning his attention back to the map. "We will send emissaries to speak with outriders of the Undercity, and perhaps with some time and negotiating we can—"

Thassarian did not wait for him to finish. Jaw clenched, expressionless, he saluted Fordring stiffly, turned on his heel, and swept from the keep.

As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, he nearly collided with a night elf woman who had been making her way down from the battlement. He recognized her as one of the priest emissaries charged with peacekeeping in Hearthglen, as well as spiritually maintaining the tower in which Tirion's son had been killed. Her name escaped him. He apologized curtly, and then looked at her sharply, suddenly noticing her shifty expression. She murmured an apology before scurrying away, back the way she had come, and he had the distinct impression before hurrying off himself that she might have been listening at the war room door.


	3. Succumb

**Chapter 3: Succumb**

* * *

><p>Koltira spat out a mouthful of blue-black blood.<p>

He grinned up at Sylvanas scornfully. "I must admit, Your Grace, I am somewhat disappointed. Arthas knew and utilized far more effective and agonizing torments. Did he teach you nothing when he killed you? Or have you simply gone so mad that you've forgotten?"

Sylvanas's lips curled up into a menacing smile that did not extend to her cold, whitely glowing eyes. She approached him, her cloak rustling against the flagstones of the dungeon like dead leaves in a windblown winter wood.

"Oh, my dear Koltira." She reached up and cupped his gaunt cheek in her cold hand. "The Lich King _did_ teach me a great many things. It is amusing that you believe that I've even _begun_ to show you the things he _didn't _teach me." She dug her fingernails suddenly into his cheek, gouging out furrows of grey flesh, drawing rivulets of blood. More disgusted than pained, Koltira wrenched his face from her grip, scowling, straining at his bonds as his hands itched to reach his starving runeblade and plunge it into her dead heart. He did not truly wish to kill her, his queen, despite her cruel torment; but she was being careful to withhold his relief, and the blood frenzy was now swiftly and inexorably leeching his sanity and his restraint. Sylvanas's smile became a leer, a crooked and cruel death's-skull baring of teeth, her eyes alight with a tinge of madness.

"He's ready," she announced to her deathguards, with triumph.

* * *

><p>...<p>

_He remembered the last time._

_They met like the crush of a battle: numb, intent, all discipline and restraint forgotten; obliterated. It was all they knew. Theirs was not a tender, hesitant partnership. Their slowly churning, icy blood dulled their nerves and made the roughest of touches feel like the brush of crystalline snow on their skin._

_They were both acutely aware of what they were, so they were unreserved. They sunk their teeth into one another, dug fingernails into flesh, their wounds knitting together instantly and constantly. Rime formed on their skin, and the shearing rustle of ice sliding against ice made an eerie, song-like whisper._

A chill shivered up Koltira's back as he remembered. The memory of simultaneous pain and release was a heady toxin. He thrashed as the edge of the craving drove into his mind like a shard of glass.

_Thassarian had come to him - he caressed Koltira's face and moved his hand down his chest. A white, stabbing pain, and he held Koltira's still-beating heart; watched it thud to a stop. _

He was delirious with withdrawal. Blood-vein threads of light pulsed at the corners of his vision, and his waking nightmares were growing more visceral and intense. As he was incapable of sleep, he was becoming unable to distinguish between the reality of his imprisonment and his visions.

_Byfrost, his own sword, jutted from his chest like a tower from a dark sea, lashed with blood. _

* * *

><p>Koltira watched, eyes dim and glazed over with blood-hunger, as the Forsaken priest conjured a shimmering well of white light. Having glimpsed this new implement, he let his head slump back against the wall.<p>

He was unconcerned. He had felt the burn of the Light before, and was largely desensitized to the agony that had given way to mere discomfort through repeated exposures in battle to various Light-infused spells. He expected that the priest would bathe his fingers in the basin, or pour its contents down his back, or, if he was particularly sadistic, force the liquid down his throat. He was therefore mildly surprised when the priest turned away from him and gingerly lifted Byfrost with both hands, lowering it over the lightwell until its tip brushed the surface of the blinding light. An unfamiliar sensation, acute and biting, crept up Koltira's spine as the blade's fuller grooves drew up the holy fire like paint into a brush, and he involuntarily hissed through his teeth in discomfort. When the priest suddenly plunged the entire point-end of Byfrost into the well, Koltira's back arched and he let out a choked gurgle of pain through his tightly clenched teeth. The holy fire, magnified through the lens of his runeblade, lapped at his muted synapses like real, roaring flames; but these flames, instead of cauterizing the nerve endings and deadening the pain, were actually intensifying. The ravenous runeblade drank of the Light, unaware in its indiscriminating lust for magic that what it was consuming was horrifically tormenting its wielder.

His mind was instantly blank with agony. His gleaming blue tattoos snapped under his skin like banners in a storm. He could not see: everything was the light, the burn of it, and it was like having his eyes held open while staring into the sun. It became nothing more or less than one long, high note of pain, screeching, and he suddenly knew not where he was or who he was and he sank with relief into the dark.

There was a voice with him, in that cool, comforting darkness. It was low and smooth, sumptuous and beguiling, redolent of longing and regret. Its soft hands, tendrils of an aching desire, caressed his face. They promised him relief and peace in unknowing, in succumbing.

_Who are you?_ Koltira asked the voice. _To what must I succumb?_

_I am between, _the voice answered simply, _and you must become both, as we have._

He opened his eyes, and found that he was no longer blind. The world was grey and pale, but points of light shimmered in the haze like figures seen through a wall of rain. The only light in this calm, muffled place came from the figures. They were not corporeal, and he could not bring them into focus. The voice pressed upon him again, less gentle this time: insistent.

_As he made us, so must we make you._ The voice stabbed into his head suddenly, white-hot, and he recoiled, screwing up his face in pain. It lasted only a moment, however, and when he opened his eyes again he saw that one of the figures of light had drawn nearer to him. He squinted and realized with a rising thrill in his throat that it was his brother, Faltora.

_Brother_! Koltira greeted him joyously, reaching out his arms to embrace him. Faltora stopped before him, his figure wavering and flickering in the grey. He was as Koltira had last seen him, resplendent in his Silvermoon armor, but he was ethereal and colorless. He bore an astonishingly close resemblance to how Koltira had looked in life: he had the same almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and slim, long nose.

_You killed me_, Faltora said abruptly. His voice was flat and without inflection. His silver eyes bored into Koltira. His vaporous countenance shivered, as if with anger.

_I…brother, it was not I who killed you. Thassarian, he spared you, and—_

_And one of his abominations finished me. You did nothing to stop it, and you even spared my killer when he led you into the forest and promised to kill you. And he: did he hesitate, then, when he drove his sword through your ribs? When he drew your life from you to feed his blood craze?_

_No, but he __**did **__spare me. He raised me, to fight by his side._

Faltora laughed, a chilling, ringing, shivering sound. _But not as his equal…as his slave. When he no longer needed you, when he was freed, did he not cast you aside? You were nothing to him…nothing…only an instrument in his, in the world's, struggle for power. That is all you are, Koltira, and all you ever will be._

Before Koltira could respond, Faltora's image faded into the mist. Koltira was unsettled, and relieved to be alone again in the grey. But a thought, a doubt, had trickled into his mind, insidious.

Whispers, now - a multitude of voices, not just the longing voice—told him of betrayal and greed and lust for power and revenge. He thought at one point that he glimpsed himself, in one of the figures of light, but he slipped away, vanishing from sight.

In and out of the light, he flitted, through pain and cool dark. He began to lose his grip, and he felt it, yet again, the tugging, insistent voice in his head that enticed him to succumb. He realized then with revulsion and terror that the feeling was all too familiar. He struggled, then, and the light increased, tunneling into him, seeping into the cracks.

_But this magic is even older and deeper than he. He only awoke us, forced us from between. _The voice was now a crackling roar, deafening and triumphant. Koltira sunk, spiraling, into the grey, down, down, and his tether to the world of undeath and unliving slackened.

* * *

><p>AN: Hello again! I am very sorry that I've been so slow to update this story. A bit of writer's block put a damper on its progress, but I am still working on it! Thank you for reading thus far, if you have, and I hope you enjoy!


	4. Proposition

**Chapter 4: Proposition**

Thassarian could scarcely believe what he was about to attempt. _I have to try. I have to try. Maybe if I temporarily summon an army, I can fight my way, I can kill all of them, deathguards abominations commanders, nothing, I can get to him, I can save him, get him out with a gate. I have to try._ It sounded crazy and hopeless even in his head; even in his frenzied state of reckless desperation.

As he hurried toward his quarters, a flurry of activity and noise at the entrance of the stronghold caught his attention momentarily. A cavalry troop, horses bearing heavily-armored knights, had begun filing into the yard. Hearthglen's recruits and even higher-ranking seasoned soldiers were clamoring around them, shouting greetings and inquiries for news from the south. _Good, _Thassarian thought,_ they needed some reinforcements to galvanize them. They've nearly lost hope, and my failure did nothing to improve their spirits. They have their commanders; I'm not needed here, now that I've lost what I was meant to hold. _Among the knights in their gleaming, burnished armor, astride their destriers and coursers, Alliance banners streaming from pikes, he glimpsed a tiny figure riding a pony, which was clearly not bedecked for war. The figure was obviously a dwarf, for he bore an impressively long, thick chestnut beard; he also seemed to be shouting questions at the excited soldiers, who had only now noticed him and were laughing raucously upon registering his strange appearance. He wore flowing, lavender priest robes, and a dwarf priest, especially in such uncharacteristic-seeming garb, was not altogether common in this region of the Eastern Kingdoms.

Thassarian's curiosity was overridden by the thought of Koltira, imprisoned in Sylvanas's pit, possibly being tortured or worse. He turned away and entered his officer's quarters. They were austere and sparsely furnished, for he had no need to sleep. The room contained nothing but a single chair, a water basin, and a chest for his belongings. The only luxury he had requested had been a fireplace. Though he could not feel the heat from the wood fires, the flicker and crackle of the flames comforted him. They took him to another time and place, in Northrend, when he and Koltira would meet, clandestine, at wayward tuskarr inns in the far tundra and along the frigid coast, where the wind blew a dirge and the snap of the ice and the convergence of their bodies were both comfortingly familiar and breathlessly exhilarating.

He quickly opened the chest and began shoving the few items he owned into his saddlebag: the necklace, some old clothing, letters from his sister, Koltira's encrypted message, a quill and parchment, spare gauntlets, his razor. At the bottom of the chest was a garment, and at first he thought it was simply one of his old tunics, but with a small lurch he realized it was the shirt he had worn the last time he had been with Koltira. He had kept it, unwashed, for upon returning to Hearthglen he had noticed that it smelled like Koltira. He pressed it to his nose, inhaling, and was dismayed to discover that it no longer smelled of anything but old oak. He gathered it into a fist, overcome, and pressed it to his eyes, struggling to recall the particular scent that was Koltira. It was loamy earth; a forest after rain; a cold, foggy morning. He could not truly remember. There was nothing. He clutched the shirt to his chest briefly before depositing it back into the chest and snapping the lid shut.

He shouldered the saddlebag and strode over to the basin, took up cupped handfuls of water, splashed his face, composed himself.

"Going somewhere, are ye?"

Spluttering, water streaming from his eyes and beard, Thassarian whirled around to find the oddly dressed dwarf who had ridden in with the cavalry standing in the doorway, having apparently quietly opened the door without his notice. He was young, Thassarian could see, despite having half his face obscured by his immaculately cut, braided beard, which was ornamented with gold bands. He had bright brown eyes and smooth, glowing cheeks, neatly trimmed eyebrows, and long but tidy hair. Thassarian didn't think he had ever seen such a well-groomed dwarf.

"Where, then?" the dwarf asked before Thassarian could recover from his shock.

"Who are you?" Thassarian demanded, fervently hoping that the dwarf had not been standing there long.

"Vynndir Deathsbane. I take it yeh're galavanting off t' save yer princess from the wicked witch?" Thassarian looked at him sharply, even more caught off guard by the dwarf's apparent inside knowledge. The dwarf's beard twitched.

"How…I've not heard the name Deathsbane before. But that's not what I meant. _Who are you?_" Thassarian's voice had grown low and dangerous. He was struggling not to simply kill the dwarf: he was in his way, and his runeblades itched.

"Clan name, recently earned," the dwarf called Vynndir said, waving a hand dismissively. "How d'yeh expect to do it alone?" he persisted.

Thassarian took two steps across the room to stand, towering, over Vynndir. "You ask many questions, dwarf, and you will find that one more might not be in the best interest of those lovely robes of yours. Although, truth be told, they'd probably look much better in crimson. Now get out of my way."

The dwarf's eyes climbed his massive frame, taking in his heavy, spiked armor and his unholy, eerily glowing eyes. Thassarian rarely removed his armor, and the soldiers of Hearthglen had grown accustomed to, if not entirely comfortable with, his fearsome appearance. This dwarf had never seen him before, and so Thassarian was equal parts unsettled and amused to note that Vynndir did not seem remotely intimidated or fearful.

The dwarf suddenly burst into laughter, clutching his sides and shaking his head with mirth. Thassarian stared at him, and concluded that he was either crazy or possessing of a death wish. Vynndir surfaced, wiping his eyes, and looked back up at Thassarian.

"And here I'd been told ye were naught but a stoic stubborn trogg! I didna' realize ye'd be such a riot, Thassarian! All righ', then, no more questions jus' now. I don' need to ask them, anyway, I already know the answers. Join us fer a drink before you go, though, will ye? Yeh won't regret it," he added when Thassarian opened his mouth to protest.

"I don't drink," Thassarian snapped, irritated. He was wasting valuable time here, but he was also dying to find out how the dwarf knew so much.

"That'll change quick enough!" Vynndir said, laughing, turning abruptly and starting off toward the inn.

Thassarian hesitated in the doorway, cursed, slammed the door to his quarters, and set off after him.

Thassarian entered the inn and met with a crush of sound and smell. It was all but overflowing with the influx of cavalry soldiers, who were all talking very loudly, struggling to be heard over one another. The harassed-looking innkeeper was bustling about, trying to keep up with the boisterous soldiers' requests for food and drink. Thassarian cast about, looking for the dwarf in the crowd, and finally spotted him, beckoning, next to a table in one of the quieter alcoves near the kitchen. As Thassarian approached the table, he saw that there was already someone sitting in one of the chairs behind it.

"I should've known," he muttered, stopping and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hello, General Thassarian," the night elf emissary, the one he had bumped into outside the war room earlier, said brightly. "Thank you for agreeing to meet us before running off to your untimely…well, _second_ death. Please, have a seat." She spoke Common with a marked Darnassian accent, all rolling r's and soft consonants.

"Well, now I know where you got your information," Thassarian said to Vynndir. "And I don't have time for this." He turned to leave, but the night elf sprang up, catching his arm.

"Thassarian, listen, please. You want to get out alive, don't you? You want to get _him_ out, don't you?" The last question finally fully seized his attention. "Then let us help you," she said kindly, gesturing to the empty seat across from hers.

Jaw clenched, Thassarian lowered himself slowly into the chair. She perked up immediately, smiling at him and hailing the innkeeper to order a round, including a drink for him. Leaning forward, hands crossed on the table, he continued to stare at her expectantly. She was lithe and willowy and fey, as most night elf women were, with pine-green hair, deep-set pale-moon eyes, and rather angular facial features: a long, sharp nose; dark, chiseled lips; high cheekbones. Her facial tattoos were similar to his: curving and bladelike, they started at her hairline and slashed down, broken halfway through by her eyes, under which they split into stalks of staggered length, the longest tapering to a point just above her chin. She wore a white, grey, and gold tabard over her dusky, faded leathers, adorned with the sigil of the Argent Crusade.

When the drinks arrived she pushed one of the large mugs toward Thassarian, raising her long eyebrows encouragingly. Exasperated, he grabbed it and chugged it wholesale. Vynndir guffawed and Daria's eyes widened.

Slamming the empty tankard down, Thassarian glowered at her. "Who are you, really? How is it that you know exactly what's happening here, eavesdropping notwithstanding?"

She shifted uncomfortably, abashed, but did not try to deny his accusation. "My name is Daria L'Rayne, and let's just say that I'm not _only_ a priest emissary," she said cryptically.

Thassarian had suspected as much, but he still didn't know who she was, and was growing weary of the cavalier attitudes of these nosy people. He pounded his fist on the table suddenly, and Daria's smile faded instantly. "Damn you, tell me _something. _You're asking me to trust you to help me, but you are refusing to be frank and tell me exactly who the hell you are and what you want from me, much less why you want to help rescue a Horde officer at the risk of your own lives. Why am I even wasting my time here?"

Daria glanced at Vynndir, seeming uncertain. She looked down at her hands, twined her long fingers in front of her on the table, pursed her lips. Finally she looked back up at Thassarian.

"I'm an SI:7 agent, undercover here. Vynndir is a liaison from SI:7, Khaz Modan branch." Vynndir made an indignant sound of protest at this, which she ignored. "Our superiors—we—have a highly vested interest in the outcome of this…um, situation. We feel that it would be conducive to both our causes if we were to help you. I'm sorry, Thassarian, but I can't tell you more about us just now. For all of our sakes. Just know that what we are proposing _will_ help Koltira."

Thassarian took a deep, calming breath through his nose. He was quiet for a moment. He thought of his plan-which-was-not-really-a-plan, a plan that would very likely result in both his and Koltira's deaths, and decided that if there was an option, any option, that afforded him more hope of saving Koltira's life, he would hear it.

"Speak quickly, elf," he said finally. "But know that whatever your plan, it is unlikely to go far without Fordring's support. We won't get into the Undercity without any troops."

"We've considered the obstacles. And contingencies." Daria looked at him closely. "You know why Sir Tirion is behaving as he is, though, don't you? This situation is of personal significance to him. Because of what happened to him before. Because of what resulted from his decisions."

"What are you talking about?" Thassarian asked, intrigued.

"So you _don't_ know," she breathed, leaning forward, and her eyes glittered with what could only be described as mischief. "You're not particularly observant or abreast of things, are you?"

Thassarian was not in the mood for games. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, waiting for her to continue.

She straightened up, looking embarrassed, and took a swig of her drink; coughed. Vynndir chortled, and she shot a reproachful glance at him before turning back to Thassarian. Her cheeks were lightly flushed. "After the Second War, Sir Tirion returned to Mardenholde, as I'm sure you know. An orc by the name of Eitrigg, whom you may have actually met in Northrend, Thassarian—"

"I didn't, but I heard his name spoken in Icecrown," Thassarian said. "He was stationed in the Argent Stand, in Zul'drak, so I never knew him. I do know that he was a friend of the Highlord's."

"Some'd say _more _than a friend," Vynndir chuckled, taking another quaff of beer.

Daria glared daggers at the dwarf, and it occurred to Thassarian for a brief moment that Vynndir was in serious danger of being throttled, but she seemed to compose herself, and with a small huff she went on.

"Yes. Eitrigg. He was a hermit, holed up in an abandoned watchtower just southeast of here. Sir Tirion found him when he was scouting one day, and he immediately attacked, thinking him an enemy spy. I suppose the fight was intense enough that it brought down parts of the neglected, obviously unstable watchtower around them, and, well, on top of Tirion. Trapped him."

Thassarian raised an eyebrow. He had never heard this story; he had assumed that Fordring had met Eitrigg much later, perhaps when meeting with Thrall before the Crusade's exodus to Northrend.

"Sir Tirion lost consciousness, and when he woke he was back in Hearthglen, having been found tied to his wandering horse days earlier, gravely wounded but alive."

"So this Eitrigg—an orc—rescued a _human_ who had _attacked him_?" Thassarian didn't try to hide the disbelief in his voice.

"Aye," Vynndir said, hailing the bartender to order another round, "and 'twasn't the end of it, either."

Daria nodded. "Far from it. Sir Tirion sought him out again, to find out more about him, to find out why an orc would save his life. He found him, and they spoke several times after that day. He discovered that Eitrigg had left the Horde upon finding out about widespread corruption in the wake of Gul'dan's betrayal, and he had become increasingly dismayed by his people's abandonment of their formerly shamanistic ways. Sir Tirion took an immediate liking to him, and he promised that Eitrigg would be left in peace, as was his desire. As for Sir Tirion's reasoning, he claims that he admired Eitrigg's honor and conviction, and was, of course, grateful for Eitrigg saving him, but I believe that there was more to it, considering the…ah…rather devastating and far-reaching events that followed."

Vynndir cleared his throat pointedly, seeming prepared to say something, but it turned into a hacking cough when he registered the withering, murderous look in Daria's eyes. He buried his face in his beer instead.

"Unfortunately, Tirion's promise was not to be. He had told Sir Barthilas of Eitrigg."

She lowered her eyes, and a shadow seemed to pass over her face. She looked up at Thassarian, and all traces of her earlier playfulness had gone. Thassarian felt a prickle at the base of his neck. "Barthilas called upon Sir Saidan Dothrohan, who—"

"Damned traitors!" Vynndir interjected loudly.

"Shhhhh!" Daria hissed, for his outburst had brought a hush to the inn as the other patrons looked curiously in their direction.

"Dothrohan became the leader of the Scarlet Crusade," Thassarian said quietly, leaning in to prevent his voice from carrying.

"Yes, and he was one of the Paladins who personally anointed Sir Tirion when he joined the Silver Hand. One of his closest friends," Daria said sadly. "Dothrohan tracked down Eitrigg, and was prepared to capture or kill him. Sir Tirion followed, and attempted to fight them off to allow Eitrigg to escape. They were both taken into custody: Eitrigg, accused of spying, and Tirion, accused of treason by his former friends, Barthilas and Dothrohan."

It was slowly dawning on Thassarian. He had never known, never suspected, that Fordring had once faced the same prosecution and condemnation for nearly the same alleged crimes of which Koltira was now being accused.

"Well, I'm sure you know the rest, about how he was convicted and forced into exile. He refused to tell anything but the truth at his trial, even when his wife pleaded with him to lie, Elune praise him," she said with affection. Thassarian gave her a curious look. "He remained in hiding until his son's involvement in the Crusade forced him to return. It isn't widely known that he sealed his own banishment when he _again_ rescued Eitrigg, who had also been convicted, and was to be executed. That was how he met Thrall: in Stratholme, where Eitrigg was being held. Tirion and Eitrigg have considered one another brothers ever since."

Thassarian was silent for a moment, digesting this extraordinary and eerily familiar account. His brow furrowed. "Why does he never tell this tale? The truth? I had always thought his conviction had been centered around his unknowing involvement with the Scarlet Crusade. But I see now that that came later."

"Well, his rapport with the Horde is fairly common knowledge. I suppose he doesn't tell the full story because of its painful reminders, and the…_implications_ that could cause trouble for him politically. Some may view his mercy and respect for Eitrigg as weakness."

Thassarian shook his head sadly at this: it was all too familiar.

"Poor Sir Tirion…" Daria said with a sigh, "…betrayed by his friends, cast out by his own wife…I can't even imagine. Karanda was a shortsighted fool," she added, vehemently, and something in her voice and her earlier words caused a realization to click.

His suspicion was confirmed when Vynndir broke in, seemingly unable to contain himself after remaining silent for so long. "Our young friend here—"

"I'm four-hundred-seventy-eight years old," Daria said matter-of-factly.

Vynndir gaped at her before recovering himself. "Right, our apparently-ancient-but-young-_looking_ friend 'ere _fancies _the Highlord." He grinned at her blearily. He was obviously becoming more than a little tipsy; swaying slightly in his seat and holding his mug of beer haphazardly, its contents sloshed back and forth, threatening to spill over.

Daria deigned to ignore this, sipping her drink haughtily, but Thassarian couldn't help noticing that her cheeks had definitely grown redder. "I'll get to the point. The death knights are reviled by the masses enough as it is, even now, after the Lich King's fall. Didn't the king himself nearly murder you when you first arrived in Stormwind? What do you think he would do if he discovered that you, his now-trusted, personally-appointed general, had gone traipsing off to the Undercity, possibly sparking a war in the process, to rescue a _blood elf death knight_? What do you think he would do to Sir Tirion, knowing his history, if he found out that he had allocated precious military resources to the rescue of that blood elf, who is a known affiliate of Sylvanas's, and could—forgive me—possibly have been corrupted by her?"

Thassarian opened his mouth, but he found he was at a loss. The damned elf had a point, and he realized more fully why Tirion had refused him. He also knew why Fordring had seemed so sympathetic. He felt a surge of pity for Tirion; for the vilification, loss, and exile that he had endured for the sake of his blood-brother.

She seemed to realize she had his full attention. "That's where we come in." She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "We've gathered a small but skilled SI:7 task force, along with a couple of mercenaries—personal friends of mine—led by _Sir_—" she said it almost derisively, shooting him a glare—"Vynndir here, which will infiltrate the Undercity and rescue Koltira."

Thassarian raised an eyebrow, dubious. "How exactly—"

Daria held up a hand, cutting him off. "As I said before: we've considered the obstacles." Her earlier mischief was back, and with a wry half-smile, she leaned in so that she was almost flat across the table and began outlining the plan in a low whisper.

* * *

><p>"—and she was the only woman I ever loved. A personality as big as an orc's breasts!"<p>

It was several hours, and several rounds of drinks, later. Vynndir had just finished regaling them with his tale of love and loss, punctuating the conclusion with an impressive belch.

Thassarian tried and failed not to snort with laughter. The drinks had finally begun to make their way through his icy veins and into his head. He was hopeful and almost elated after hearing Daria and Vynndir's plan, which was, to his surprise, clever and simple, if somewhat risky.

Vynndir snapped toward him at the sound of his chuckle and eyed him beadily, swaying in his seat.

"And _what_, Scruffybeard, is so funny?" he demanded.

"That was poetic," Thassarian said, grinning. "You should definitely tell her that if ever you see her again. And a _gnome_? I'd've thought you'd go the more…_traditional_ route, being a priest."

"_Traditional?_ Ye've no right t'laugh, pointy-ear-frilly-elf-lover! And besides, 'ave ye _seen_ a female dwarf?"

"Hey!" Daria bristled. Eyes slightly crossed, she pointed at him with her mug and missed, pointing instead at the chair next to him. "Watch yourself, Shorty Longbeard, or this _pointy-ears_ _frilly elf_ will—erm—give _you_ pointy ears!" she finished rather lamely.

Nonplussed, Vynndir stared at her, and, after a short pause, threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"And who're _you_ calling frilly?" Daria muttered sulkily into her mug, barely audible over the dwarf's merriment.

Thassarian leaned back, chuckling, surprised and amused by the dwarf's dig about Koltira. "Fair enough, Sir Vynndir," he said, and the dwarf raised his mug, inclining his head, and took a deep draft, apparently unaware that only about a fourth of the beer was making it into his mouth. The rest trickled into his beard.

The inn's common room had cleared; the new arrivals and Hearthglen's residents had made their grudging way out to attend to their various duties after one of the commanders had stormed in, blustering and raging about laziness and lashings and preparedness. He had spotted Thassarian, and seemed on the verge of questioning him, a general, as to his apparent nonchalance about midday drinking, but decided against it with a short shake of his head and a very hasty exit.

The innkeeper had been relieved by a new bartender, a surly-looking young man with a scruffy beard and a grubby apron. He approached their table and nearly dropped the mugs of beer he was holding when he glimpsed what must have seemed a very strange group of people drinking together: a night elf, a dwarf, and a death knight, the latter of whom was intimidatingly armored to the teeth.

Shaking his head in bemusement, he plunked the mugs down between them and wandered off muttering about the Cataclysm and strange folk.

"If he only knew," Thassarian said softly, smiling in spite of himself, bolstered by the drink and a plan that was more than the nothing of earlier, and Daria giggled, while Vynndir, now rather drunk and oblivious, grabbed the nearest mug and began chugging with gusto.

Thassarian closed his eyes briefly, a surge of drunken euphoria making him temporarily wish he could still sleep. He breathed deeply.

_Dawn. I'm coming, Koltira._

* * *

><p>AN: Hi again! This story has taken pretty criminally long to update, hasn't it...truthfully, I've had this and a later chapter done for quite a while, but didn't post for personal insecurity and confidence reasons. I do apologize, sincerely, for the delays between chapters. I _will _finish this story, I promise, and I truly appreciate my readers'/reviewers' patience as I update this! I appreciate _you _as readers, as well! A story-related note: I realized after I conceptualized this story that Tirion Fordring [and Hearthglen] are faction-neutral in the game. For the purposes of this story, I felt I needed to bend canon a little bit to make it so that he is the leader of Alliance forces (only). Sorry for any confusion this may have caused!


	5. Dismissal

A/N: Small interlude chapter just so people know I'm still alive and working on this story! Wedding planning/honeymoon and the associated stress pretty much incinerated the free time I had to work on it, but now I'm finally back and ready to write again in earnest. Thanks again to all of you for reading my story; I appreciate and cherish every view and review I receive.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Dismissal<strong>

In Thassarian's drunken half-dreams, his waking trances, his walking fugues, he saw Koltira, and over and over he lamented and reluctantly relived their final parting in Northrend.

_"Let me come with you. The Horde is not my…these are not my people. Not anymore."_

_"No." Thassarian cut across him quickly, harshly, and Koltira winced like Thassarian had slapped him, his face etched with shock and pain._

_Thassarian did not try to comfort him. **Please, please don't, Koltira**. He looked away, staring into the flames of the small fire, willing them to consume him, burn him, cauterize it from his flesh._

_He took Koltira again, near dawn, and Koltira clung to him like a dying man clings to life, gasping and shuddering, and Thassarian despised himself. There was little passion, now, only a sort of quiet desperation, and they were silent and somber when they gathered and re-donned their armor in the cold dark. The fire had dwindled and the coals were turning to ash in the cast-iron grate._

_The Borean morning dawned, grey and raw, the land suddenly bared like a reopened wound, and the crack and grind of the icebergs on the glassy sea sang like a bow across violin strings, reedy and mournful and wild. There was a strange sort of comfort, in the wildness; in the wind's sharp and constant bite; in the unyielding, hardy life that grew and survived here; in the stones and thin grass and creeping ice. It was inhospitable but still bursting, teeming with an aching beauty and brimming with almost unbearable silence. Icecrown held the same wild, cold, expansive desolation; but it was dead, a place where light and hope blinked out like dying stars and the sorrow was hollowing rather than winnowing, a sorrow inseparable from the empty promise of deliverance._

_Thassarian sat on Dusk, watching the living world wake. Koltira sat beside him on Bloodmist, staring out across the still tundra, eyes blazing, and his ash-gold hair coursed around his face, caught by the wind, and the poignancy of that glimpse of beauty, of life even within and surrounding death, welled in Thassarian's heart like choking smoke, like a breath of tuskarr incense both rapturous and strangling._

_Koltira turned, before Thassarian could look away, and their eyes met. In Koltira's look was not love, or understanding, or joy, or sadness, but grim resignation. He lowered his eyes. Thassarian knew it was unlikely they would see each other again. His road led to Icecrown, and it would not lead out unless either he or Arthas was dead._

_They rode together along the rutted road, for a time, in silence. When they finally parted it was without words, for in that world of the living there was nothing for them to say._


End file.
